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AMONG      THE      TREES 


Among  the  Trees 


BY 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


FROM  DESIGNS  BY  JERVIS  McENTEE,    ENGRAVED  BY  HARLEY 


NEW     YORK 
G.      P.      PUTNAM'S       SONS 

FOUKTH    AVKNLE    AND   TWENTY-THIRD    StREET 


Entered  accordins  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tlie  year  1874,  by 

G.     P.     PUTNAM'S     SONS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


John  F.  Trow  &  Son, 

Printkks  and  Elkctkotvpkrs, 

205-213  I'.nst  12th  St., 

new    YORK. 


^-i*^'l^?^ftS£iS;=s  = 


Oh  ye  who  love  to  overhang  the  springs,      -^^ 
And  stand  by  running  waters,  ye  whose  boughs 
Make  beautiful  the  rocks  o'er  which  they  play, 
Who  pile  with  foliage  the  great  hills,  and  rear 
A  paradise  upon  the  lonely  plain 


Trees  of  the  forest  and  the  open  field  ! 
Have  ye  no  sense  of  being  ?         ,^^'»'-*-^^^^ 


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Does  the  air, 

The  pure  air,  which  I  breathe  with  gladness,  pass    ^ 
In  gushes  o'er  your  delicate  lungs,  your  leaves,  v/*; 
All  unenjoyed  ?     When  on  your  Winter-sleep 
The  sun  shines  warm,  have  ye  no  dreams  of  Spring? 
And,  when  the  glorious  Spring-time  comes  at  last, 
Have  ye  no  joy  of  all  your  bursting  buds. 
And  fragrant  blooms,  and  melody  of  birds 
To  which  your  young  leaves  shiver  ? 


■\^ 


ff^>^- 


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^ 


Do  ye  strive 
And  wrestle  with  the  wind,  yet  know  it  not  ? 
Feel  ye  no  glory  in  your  strength  when  he, 
The  exhausted  Blusterer,  flies  beyond  the  hills, 
And  leaves  you  stronger  yet  ?     Or  have  ye  not 
A  sense  of  loss  when  he  has  stripped  your  leaves, 
Yet  tender,  and  has  splintered  your  fair  boughs  ^ 
Does  the  loud  bolt  that  smites  you  from  the  clou( 
And  rends  you,  fall  unfelt  ? 

l%f I 


r^% 


Do  there  not  run 
Strange  shudderings  through  your  fibers  when 

the  axe 
Is  raised  against  you,  and  the  shining  blade 
Deals  blow  on  blow,  until,  with  all  their  boughs,/ 
Your  summits  waver  and  ye  fall  to  earth  ? 


^<^^'^ 


r^-^ 


^5 


Know  ye  no  sadness  when  the  hurricane 
Has  swept  the  wood  and  snapped  its  sturdy  stems 
Asunder,  or  has  wrenched,  from  out  the  soil, 
The  mightiest  with  their  circles  of  strong  roots, 
And  piled  the  ruin  all  along  his  path  ? 

Nay,  doubt  we  not  that  under  the  rough  rind, 
In  the  green  veins  of  these  fair  growths  of  earth, 
There  dwells  a  nature  that  receives  delight 
From  all  the  gentle  processes  of  life. 
And  shrinks  from  loss  of  being.     Dim  and  faint 
May  be  the  sense  of  pleasure  and  of  pain. 
As  in  our  dreams  ;  but,  haply,  real  still. 


Our  sorrows  touch  you  not.     We  watch  beside 
The  beds  of  those  who  languish  or  who  die, 
And  minister  in  sadness,  while  our  hearts 
Offer  perpetual  prayer  for  life  and  ease 
And  health  to  the  beloved  sufferers. 
But  ye,  while  anxious  fear  and  fainting  hope 
Are  in  our  chambers,  ye  rejoice  without. 
The  funeral  goes  forth  ;  a  silent  train 
Moves  slowly  from  the  desolate  home  ;  our  hearts 
Are  breaking  as  we  lay  away  the  loved, 
Whom  we  shall  see  no  more,  in  their  last  rest. 
Their  little  cells  within  the  burial-place. 

19 


The  wind  of  May- 
Is  sweet  with  breath  of  orchards,  in  whose  boughs 
The  bees  and  every  insect  of  the  air 
Make  a  perpetual  murmur  of  dehght. 
And  by  whose  flowers  the  humming-bird  hangs  poised 
In  air,  and  draws  their  sweets  and  darts  away. 
The  Hnden,  in  the  fervors  of  July, 
Hums  with  a  louder  concert.     When  the  wind 
Sweeps  the  broad  forest  in  its  summer  prime, 
As  when  some  master-hand  exulting  sweeps 
The  keys  of  some  great  organ,  ye  give  forth 
The  music  of  the  woodland  depths,  a  hymn 
Of  gladness  and  of  thanks. 


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23 


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The  henji it-thrush 
Pipes  his  sweet  note  to  make  your  arches  ring. 
The  faithful  robin,  from  the  wayside  elm,  t 

Carols  all  day  to  cheer  his  sitting  mate. 
And  when  the  Autumn  comes,  the  kings  of  earth. 
In  all  their  majesty,  are  not  arrayed 
As  ye  are,  clothing  the  broad  mountain-side, 
And  spotting  the  smooth  vales  with  red  and 

gold.      ^  ^     ^^^ 

While,  swaying  to  the  sudden  breeze,  ye  flin<7>^o 
Your  nuts  to  earth,  and  the  brisk  squirrel 

comes 
To  gather  them,  and  barks  with  childish  glee' 
And  scampers  with  them  to  his  hollow  oak. 


---•^^ 


<'% 


Thus,  as  the  seasons  pass,  ye  keep  aliv( 
The  cheerfulness  of  nature,  till  in  time 
The  constant  misery  which  wrings  the  heart 
Relents,  and  we  rejoice  with  you  again. 
And  glory  in  your  beauty  ;  till  once  more 
We  look  with  pleasure  on  your  vanished  leaves, 
That  gayly  glance  in  sunshine,  and  can  hear. 
Delighted,  the  soft  answer  which  your  boughs 
Utter  in  whispers  to  the  babbling  brook. 


""f!^^ 


^?^^:^ 


V.^.; 


:T--i3-He^^' 


29 


''^^r 


-^i.--i-^-u=^g©JJ 


—  t 


I  know  not  who,  L.iL  thank  him  that  he* 

left 

The  tree  to  flourish  where  the  acorn  fell, 
And  join  these  later  days  to  that  far  time 
While  yet  the  Indian  hunter  drew  the  bow 
In  the  dim  woods,  and  the  white  woodman  first 
Opened  these  fields  to  sunshine,  turned  the  soil 
And  strewed  the  wheat.     An  unremembered 

Past 
Broods,  like  a  presence,  'mid  the  long  gray 

boughs 
Of  this  old  tree,  which  has  outlived  so  long- 
The  fitting  generations  of  mankind. 


K^^- 
#^-?^ 


2■^^T^ 


^\^^ 


31 


Ye  have  no  history.     I  ask  in  vain  s--':^f.'i--  p^- 

Who  planted  on  the  slope  this  lofty  group      ^^t^JwjVt^ 
Of  ancient  pear-trees  that  with  spring-time  burst 
Into  such  breadth  of  bloom.     One  bears  a  scar     ^: 
Where  the  quick  lightning  scored  its  trunk,  yet 

still 
It  feels  the  breath  of  Spring,  and  every  May 
Is  white  with  blossoms.     Who  it  was  that  laid 
Their  infant  roots  in  earth,  and  tenderly 
Cherished  the  delicate  sprays,  I  ask  in  vain. 
Yet  bless  the  unknown  hand  to  which  I  owe     ''' 
This  annual  festival  of  bees,  these  songs       p^ 
Of  birds  within  their  leafy  screen,  these  shouts 
Of  joy  from  children  gathering  up  the  fruit 
Shaken  in  August  from  the  wilHng  boughs. 


33 


^^iiife^SniS;^'?^^^/:^:^^ 


Beside  the  way,  or  in  the  orchard-ground, 
Or  in  the  open  meadow,  ye  whose  boughs 
With  every  summer  spread  a  wider  shade,      %^ 
Whose  herd  in  coming  years  shall  lie  at  rest 
Beneath  your  noontide  shelter  ?  ^.    ^*^4W^^^. 

35 


Who  shall  pluck 
Your  ripened  fruit  ?  who  grave,  as  was  the  wont,. 
Of  simple  pastoral  ages,  on  the  rind 
Of  my  smooth  beeches  some  beloved  name  ?_ 
Idly  I  ask  ;  yet  may  the  eyes  that  look  ^ 

Upon  you,  in  your  later,  nobler  growth,       ^^ 
Look  also  on  a  nobler  age  than  ours  ; 

.-37 


..    ymk 


An  age  when,  in  the  eternal  strife  between 

Evil  and  Good,  the  Power  of  Good  shall  win 

A  grander  mastery  ;  when  kings  no  more 

Shall  summon  milHons  from  the  plough  to 

The  trade  of  slaughter,  and  of  populous  realms 

Make  camps  of  war  ;  when  in  our  younger  land 

The  hand  of  ruffian  Violence,  that  now 

Is  insolently  raised  to  smite,  shall  fall 

Unnerved  before  the  calm  rebuke  of  law, 

And  Fraud,  his  sly  confederate  shrink,  in  shame. 

Back  to  his  covert,  and  forego  his  prey.  C- 

39 


'0^ 


